


Dinkum Oil

by wickedrum



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Agriculture, Ayrton's alive, Current Day, Denial, Friendship, Gen, Horses, apparently I'm still in the denial stage of grief lmao, fazenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: So here we are, nearly 26 years after Senna’s death and I’m still in denial, imagining ways he could be alive. This is one of them. There are many in my head, and they need an outlet!
Relationships: Alain Prost&Ayrton Senna, Alain Prost&Nelson Piquet
Kudos: 5





	1. Wilderness Llanero

**Author's Note:**

> In no way this is intended in any harmful way to anyone, including Alain Prost. Especially not to Senna’s memory or the Brasilian people. I’m sorry if I’ve imagined parts of your vast country wrong.
> 
> Set: Current day (2019).
> 
> Disclaimers: RPF is not my thing! When I am writing, it's foremost for my own pleasure. Above all, this one. I’m not sure if I’ll let many people read it. Most filters applied.
> 
> Pairings: as in real life and not important to the plot. 
> 
> Genre/tags: denial.

Alain Prost, four-time Formula One Drivers' Champion and bankrupt formal racing team owner was not your typical retired racing driver. Sure he had done stints as advisor for different teams and turns in the commentators’ box, took part in other sports in a competitive manner and very actively criticised current racing trends and regulations. As opposed to many of his counterparts however, he did not pass any test to fly helicopters or planes and successfully avoided any association with gathering obscene wealth. 

Opinionated as he has always been, the Frenchman was not known to keep a grudge going forever, be that as it may and kept good relations with formal rivals such as Nigel Mansell and Nelson Piquet. To honour these friendships, they would meet up regularly. Alain knew that sooner or later he would have to honour his promise too, that he would visit Nelson’s home and family in Brazil. 

The Professor didn’t go to the country often. As a man working behind the scenes for quite a while now, he didn’t have to travel to all the races, which came in handy when the circus went to Interlagos. Not that he was afraid or anything, but when the police needs to escort you every time you’re around to take part in a race due to the hostility of the locals towards you, it tends to leave some kind of mark. The Frenchman wasn’t sure how the Brazilians as a nation felt towards him decades after his famous rivalry with Senna. Their subsequent friendship and respect towards each other before the Brasilian’s tragic accident and complete disappearance out of the public eye was less known than their fights, but either way, there was a whole generation that had grown up now that knew virtually nothing of either of them or their carriers. Nelson’s home was in Brasilia, the federal capital of the country, some thousand kilometres away from the race track in Sao Paulo and so Alain saw no reason why he shouldn’t heed the businessman’s invitation to spend a few days together reminiscing and discussing sport politics. He wasn’t too surprised when Nelson showed him around and took it as a personal mission to showcase the wonders of the country if they were anywhere near the vicinity, and neither was it a surprise that the Brasilian wanted to show off his helicopter flying skills as well. 

Brazil was indeed beautiful from above, with its chapadas worthy of the Grand Canyon, rainforests, waterfalls, natural sand banks, savannahs and open pastures as far as the eye could see. Nelson had been right. Without actually seeing it, Alain would have not realised the sheer variety and enormity of it all. He had been too busy motor racing to appreciate it before. “What are you smiling at so judgy?” The Frenchman was about to admit his awe of the scenery. 

“Having fun? Do you know where we are?” Nelson’s look was decidedly mischievous. Given how known the older racer had been for his pranks throughout the racing community, Alain’s stomach gathered in his throat and it wasn’t because the Brasilian was hovering the helicopter a lot closer to the ground. The Frenchman’s curls shook with a wary no. 

“Look around. As far as the eye can see in any direction right now, the rivers and the forests and the cattle fields, the gold mines and manganese reserves, the hot springs and the soybean fields. It’s all da Silva family land.”

“You mean..” Alain felt more uncomfortable. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. It has belonged to the family of wealthy Brazilian landowner and factory owner Milton da Silva for generations.” Nelson Piquet was always ready for a dig at the other Brasilian champion to an extent that they should have been considered enemies more than Prost and Senna. The businessman was enjoying his own escapade too, bringing him here, that was clear. 

“Nice..” Alain felt like shrugging, really. Of course he had been aware that Ayrton had a privileged upbringing and never had to race for money, in fact he could have financed ten of those teams The Professor went under with, but seeing all those riches hardly meant anything for him. What difference did those properties make to their relationship or rivalry? As someone who had always seen money as a means to an end, those holdings did not impress Alain. However, Senna had not been seen for over 25 years, not even for the extent of a picture, some doubted he was even alive or if he was, he would have been affected by the accident in such a way that his family wanted to save his dignity by hiding him. Much the same as Michael Schumacher has not been seen or heard of since his unfortunate brain injuries. It was this absence that peaked his interest, “do you know something? Is it here they’ve been hiding Ayrton? The middle of nowhere?”

“That I don’t know,” Nelson’s attention was taken up by some of the gauges in front of him and he tapped at one, “give me a minute.”

“Aren’t we maybe too low?” Alain picked up on the other’s edginess. 

“Um..this model of helicopter can put on a good show but it has a history of faults with the caution advisory display, specifically a history of erroneous or spurious fuel indications, amongst other technical problems such as the contamination of the fuel tanks.”

“You don’t mean we ran out of fuel?” The small Frenchman furrowed his eyebrows, reaching to hang on, driven by instinct, however improbable it was that hanging on would help in the event of a crash. 

“Afraid so,” Nelson spared him a glance, “but not to worry. Helicopters are designed specifically to allow pilots to have a reasonable chance of landing them safely in the case where the engine stops working during flight. I can do it.”

“Engine stops? What? That fast?” Alain was starting to feel a little nervous himself. At which point, it did exactly that. It stopped.

“There’s stored rotational energy in the blades to produce lift just before landing,” the pilot looked reasonably confident as he lowered a control stick and took to descend in a controlled autorotation with a forward velocity, slowed it down, producing a flare that increased rotor speed. With the extra rotor speed, he pulled up on the collective, increasing the rotor’s pitch to get more lift during the final few feet to cushion the landing. “Well, that is how it is done,” he announced, apparently quite happy with himself. And I didn’t get a heart attack,” he added, referring to his recent surgery. “Are you alright?” He grinned.

Alain frowned. He wasn’t in the mood of congratulating the man on his landing given it was his fault they ended up in this mess to start with, “now what do we do?” They looked around on the plains of endless savannah, all their formal rival Ayrton Senna’s land by birthright, apparently.

Tbc


	2. Three Champions’ Ride

Chapter 2: Three Champions’ Ride

“There’s got to be a place where we can call someone from,” Alain insisted as they headed towards the closest tree for shade, “you just don’t know.”

Nelson scoffed, “if you haven’t noticed, this is not the highway where there’s an emergency telephone every mile or so. It’s proper nowhereland wilderness through and through, alright? You won’t find a signal anywhere here.”

“People live here, right? I mean you said something about plantations, didn’t you? People must work here, talk to others?”

The older man rolled his eyes at him, “it sounds like you weren’t really listening. Besides, you have no idea of the conditions out here up on the highlands.”

“And you’ve not even tried the radio?”

“Do you see any transmitting antennas around here? Not to mention that we are not supposed to be on this land at all!”

“But we are! So unless you have some fuel stashed away somewhere, we will need to do something! We can’t be here, as you said!” 

Nelson uttered something that sounded like a curse and started pacing up and down, “the vaqueiros aren’t usually very welcoming if you’re on their land uninvited. Especially us two here I would say,” the businessman gestured vaguely behind them.

The sound of galloping hooves closed in quickly. As soon as Alain turned, they were surrounded by a group of horsemen in large hats and brown leather fringe jackets, hollering and gesturing to each other animatedly. Not speaking the language, the Frenchman didn’t understand much, but he did find the interchange somewhat intimidating. When the weatherworn men started laughing and pointing at both of them, Nelson did his best to appease them with explanations. Alain was pretty sure that Ayrton’s nickname ‘Beco’ was said by a couple of the riders and then they all came closer, which he did not find very comforting either. It was all too wild and chaotic for him. “What is going on?” He virtually stuck to Nelson, his only hope for understanding anything at the moment.

“Can you ride a horse alright?” The older racing driver translated.

“I’ve maybe done it a couple of times before?” 

The point of the question became obvious very soon if it hadn’t been before as two of the gauchos jumped off and the two intruders were provided with some strong looking, sturdy horses. The saddle was small and was made of sheep wool, the reins practically just some rope, but at least the horse wasn’t too high so after a suggestive eyebrow raised by Nelson, the Frenchman followed suit and mounted the animal. The horse moved immediately, stamping and trotting in a circle, not fond of a stranger riding him, especially one who could barely hold on. 

“They said to give it a minute, let him get used to you. He’s virtually half wild,” the other retired racing driver advised, “settle down and he’ll settle down.”

“Settle down how when he’s bouncing me up and down! I don’t want to break anything!”

“It’s called riding,” Nelson seemed to have joined the group of locals laughing at him, “look ahead, trust him, sit up straight, but not rigid and leaning a little forward, you need to make him feel you’re not nervous. Hold onto the saddle tight with your thighs. Move with him, feel it.”

“I am!” That was a lot of advice at once, but the Professor tried his best to follow the other riders as thankfully the horse already got the memo about where they were going. Damnit, this was nothing like driving and he didn’t like it, the sliding around, the being bounced, the uncomfortable way the saddle rubbed against his bottom. He was too engrossed in the task to notice another group of riders appearing on the plains, coming in fast, leaning forward as if it were a race, kicking up dust. The Frenchman was startled and unnerved by being circled by yet another lot of Brasilians. The stallion must have felt it too, because he emitted a whinny and the next moment, Alain was on the ground. The Frenchman found the lack of laughs somewhat strange. After all, he had been scorned on, the moment he’d met the locals. It had been a stupid idea coming here, but then again, it wasn’t his to start with. Alain stood nevertheless, trying to ignore his aching back that had certainly been bruised by the fall, intent on keeping onto as much of his dignity he had left.

“Are you alright there?” 

The voice and accent was decidedly familiar, but maybe a lot of Brasilians sounded like that. In any case, Alain failed to locate Ayrton, not till one of the men dismounted right next to him and pushed his hat out the way with his left index finger. Ayrton’s eyes were hard not to recognise, even if his skin was practically an almost different species darker, features more weatherworn rather than old looking. His dark curly hair reached his shoulders, partially covering a scar at the side of his face, no doubt that horrible injury. He seemed somewhat amused like the rest of them, though he held out a hand, still holding on to the reins with the other, “welcome to the Fazenda Trevo Branco, Alain.”

“Wow, you’re okay, you’re here!” The shorter man couldn’t help stating as he grabbed the extended hand happily. Everything was just so unexpected. 

Ayrton smiled, “well, I’m maybe not a vegetable as they say out there, but okay, that’s maybe an overstatement,” he dragged an uncooperating leg behind himself as he pulled back to lean on his horse. When he replaced the hand holding on to the reins for a better grip, it became obvious why. His left one wasn’t exactly moving in a fine tuned manner.

Alain immediately felt guilty for his intrusion. Maybe the disability caused by the accident wasn’t very severe, but it certainly wasn’t for nothing that Ayrton hid out here or wherever for decades. He did not want to be seen, or be reminded of his old life. “Us being here, I wasn’t very keen on it. It was just an unfortunate mishap, an unexpected difficulty with Nelson’s helicopter,” he felt the need to explain. 

“Seen that, sure,” the younger man nodded towards the hills above as possibly an indication of where they’ve witnessed the incident. Though how the riders could get over from up there this fast was a mystery. 

“Hi. We just need some AvGas and we’re out of your hair,” Nelson joined them, sounding matter of fact and as if they’d just popped over from across the road, “and sorry about that. Totally my fault.”

“100LL for a piston engine, right I believe?”

“Yes!” The older businessman sounded relieved, “you have it here?”

Ayrton shook his head, “no. And sort of yes, sure, about a day’s ride away at the main house.”

“But you don’t mean horse ride?” Alain wanted to specify. Ayrton shrugged somewhat sheepishly.

“We did not see any roads from above nearby, not one.” It was Nelson’s way of trying to appease the Frenchman with an explanation. 

“The calves have not been weaned yet so we’re out summering with them so that the mothers can get better, high quality hay.” That was Ayrton’s explanation, though Alain did not find either very satisfactory. 

“How close is the closest road?” The Rio man fidgeted somewhat uncomfortably while trying to remain straight-faced. 

“Road, hm.” Ayrton paused for a while, “road I can’t do but I know where the closest tractor is! Follow me!” He pulled himself up into the saddle mostly using one side of his body and got the mare moving with a minute clicking sound, touched his hat as a goodbye to the other workers, got hold of the horse Alain had been given previously and patted its neck, “he should behave if I hold onto him. Though it might take till twilight to get to the coffee plantation if we’re just trotting.”

“Ok, I’ll keep up,” Alain felt like his dignity was in question again as everybody found it obvious he wasn’t a rider. Thankfully, the horse was more settled when he mounted him this time and Nelson was having trouble with his own too at any case. The amused twinkle in Ayrton’s eyes was unmissable as he set off with a gallop, pausing at every tree so the other two could catch up. 

Tbc


	3. Bat Out Of Hell

Chapter 3: Bat Out Of Hell

It was indeed getting darker out by the time the trio reached the lush green meadows of coffee plants sprawling over acres of land. They were heading towards the noise, the singing group of harvesters settling in for the evening under the trees themselves, greeting ‘Beco’ loudly, amicably and surprisedly, and the other two with reservation, stupefaction and some with blessed ignorance for their identity. Nelson explained that most didn’t know who the new visitors were, but an older worker told the others. “Okay so apparently the tractors and trucks don’t arrive till tomorrow,” Ayrton joined them, “you’re welcome to sleep in one of the treehouses for tonight. We can’t reach anywhere else today, I’m sorry about that.”

“Tree-houses?” Nelson looked around.

“Too many rattlesnakes and jaguars around at night otherwise I’m afraid. I’ll take you, it’s not far. We have some souari nut trees nearby used for the purpose. But I’m sure you’re hungry first of all. Unless you want to eat those nuts,” Ayrton jested, though the fruit was eminently edible and a delicacy too.

The intruders had to admit with a look at each other that their stomachs were indeed empty. “Come, we’re going to the storage hut, everybody else already ate,” the local mounted again to lead the way through a few rows of coffee plants till they got to a half wooden, half hay cabin, held together by vines. It wasn’t very large, with a few farming tools hanging up on the walls, a table with some covered dishes and a wooden plank that could serve as a bed judging by the blankets atop. “The doctor sleeps here when he’s around,” Ayrton explained, trailing behind them. He seemed slow without his horse to lean on, using the walls instead for purchase. “So I think we have acai berries, beiju and feijoada.” 

“That’s a kind of stew, should be good,” Nelson took on the translator’s role for Alain’s sake again. 

“Now plates, that could be a problem,” the landowner looked under the table as he sat down on a stool, “or not,” he pulled some ceramic bowls and spoons out, the kind where each one was a unique shape and pattern because they were handmade. “Serve yourself,” he handed them over, “sorry guys, my leg doesn’t cooperate this long.”

“Of course, no problem!” Nelson was trying to be helpful, opening the containers and instructing the foreigner what he should do. There was an awkward silence as they sat down outside so they could still see a little better in the descending darkness. Alain couldn’t help but marvel in wonderment. The whole setting could have been a century ago, it would have looked just the same. His archrival clearly, in possession of all his mental faculties, had consciously chosen to stay here, somewhere where not even electricity pylons reached. No motor races could be as much as watched here. It was intriguing and fascinating. 

“I see the entertainment is in the form of corn wine,” Nelson smelt at a jug, thinking along similar lines.

“Not just. I think I could ask the men for some unaged cachaça branca or there’s possibly some cauim?”

“It’s alright, this will do for me,” the older Brasilian passed the wine around after taking a great big swig from the jug himself. 

“How are your boys? Nico and Sasha, right?” Ayrton's question seemed genuine rather than simply an attempt at small talk when Alain handed the jug over to him. 

“Oh, you remember! They’ve made me a grandfather twice,” the Frenchman didn’t know why that was the first thing he would mention instead of his sons’ other accomplishments, such as winning races, but maybe having grandchildren was what was most important in life after all.

“Oh, how old are the little ones?” Ayrton seemed genuinely interested again. 

“Four and one. I would show you some pictures but my phone ran out of charge on the way here. I don’t suppose we could charge them anywhere here?”

His once archrival looked amused again, “no. Though there should be a charging wire in the Jeep.” 

“The Jeep?” Nelson took interest.

“Yeah, I was told earlier that the dentist Jeep is due. It’s probably possible to borrow it for a day or two.”

“What’s a dentist Jeep?” Alain couldn’t help but ask.

“They have the whole chair, light and equipment set up in the back,” Nelson explained, “that’s how they do it in isolated communities out here with not much contact with the outside world.”

“Are you sure the dentist will be okay with it?” The Frenchman frowned.

“He’s employed by my father. He will have to be okay with it.”

“I’ve never driven a dentist Jeep before, that’s for sure,” Alain mused. 

“You aren’t driving it.” Ayrton sounded definite, “Google Earth doesn’t work here. And even if it did..”

“Cause it wouldn’t be advisable without knowing the terrain,” Nelson finished the sentence, sounding like he agreed with the land’s owner without a shred of doubt this time, “not here.”

Ayrton nodded, “I should tend to the horses now. Will show you to the treehouses after,” he pulled himself up using the doorframe and staggered out.

Tbc


	4. Finally Wheels

Chapter 4: Finally Wheels

Alain really wasn’t sure of all the loud to-and froing that happened in the morning. The cots next to him up in the tree house were empty, but it wasn’t hard to find where the commotion came from. It was the result of some tractors being emptied of fuel so that the Jeep could be juiced up. The vehicle wasn’t what he’d expected either. Weatherworn and old, it looked more like a second world war military pickup rather than anything else. The dentist seat could not be dismounted from the back. A group of men were gathering to look under the hood, though Ayrton, covered in motor oil up to his elbows, declared that their ride was ready. Alain didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he climbed into the front row’s long singular seat or bench or whatever it was, a tight fit together with the two Brasilian champions. He was handed a banana and some papaya by one of the workers and by then Ayrton had put the Jeep into drive, drawing a clearly still questioning and unconvinced eyebrow from Nelson over how the younger man was going to control the vehicle with one side of his body barely functioning. 

The ride was bumpy, awkward and surreal, up and down elevations and through vegetation that had to be reigned in by the bumpers on the car, riding on tracks no person from any civilization would have called a road, and then there were the times when Ayrton slowed to a near halt to let a group of tapirs or jaguars pass.It was surreal. Alain expected something like that again when the Jipão decelerated, but this time they stopped at the edge of a fast flowing, wide, angry river, not alike any of the small streams and brooks they have crossed earlier, only a lot larger. Ayrton pulled himself up higher using the steering wheel as support and surveyed the scene, obviously searching for something, “um, okay then.”

“Should there be a bridge or something like that?” Nelson guessed.

“Are we lost? Did we come the wrong way?” Alain found it likely. All the bushes and hills looked the same to him.

“No, that’s not it,” Ayrton sounded firm as he turned the car ninety degrees and reversed a little along the edge, then without warning, they were in the river as soon as the car moved forward when put into first gear. Alain jumped, looking for purchase, but somehow the wheels were still on solid ground even though the water was clearly deep beside them.

“This traverse is tricky sorry, it might take a while and I honestly haven’t driven a car, any car in years,” the local informed them cooly as he manoeuvred the pass, inch by inch, wheel by wheel, boulder by boulder, often only having purchase for three wheels. Neither of the other two dared to breathe a word on the crossing that seemed to have required something akin to surgical precision and a lot of horsepower to jump out at the end. Alain was very surprised they didn’t get washed down with the flow and swore never to hitch a ride with Ayrton ever again. Risk, danger, living on the edge, that man didn’t change one bit despite the vastly different environment. 

“Are we close yet?” Nelson hoped, even though he was aware he might have been sounding like a child on a longer car journey. 

“No, but we should have a signal soon,” their driver nodded towards the charging phone, “it’s up to you what you’d like to do after. Call for help here and ask for someone to come pick you up or let me drop you off at the main house. I’d suggest the latter, it’s not advisable out here for city people.”

“How long has it been exactly?” Alain was curious enough to ask. 

“Since I drove? The village had a meningitis outbreak I think about three years ago if I remember right, I transported people this way for swiftness’ sake.”

While that was surprising information, it wasn’t what the Frenchman meant, “since you left this farm, your family’s fazenda I mean.” 

“There is no need to leave the fazenda,” Ayrton remained mysterious, not quite ready to share.

“Do you watch any races at all?”

“Formula 1 races? Do you see any televisions? Well hey, you know I happen to catch a few sometimes when I’m at the house.”

“And if I ask you to come visit us?” Alain felt bold. 

Ayrton gave him a searching look. “Don’t you miss Europe, a different setting?” The shorter man pushed. 

“I promised to visit Gerr. Gerhard,” the Brasilian specified in case Alain wasn’t aware of his nickname for his favourite ever teammate, “he was pretty determined to get me to go.”

“When is that?” 

“You know, the cane fields will need to be harvested soon.”

“In other words you will keep finding excuses not to leave,” Nelson was known for not beating around the bush. 

“I’ll have you know that we’re Brazil's second largest cane based ethanol fuel producers and a sustainable-biofuel industry leader with it as a result,” Ayrton sounded put out and fell silent. Eventually, he glanced at Alain, “I’ll visit, before the year is out. You have my word.”

The End.


End file.
